


Aeon

by cedarmoons



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluffy schmoop, now 99 percent angst free!, this is literally meant to be happy solavellan drabbles and that is it, this ship is tears and hell i need something happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:37:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is only one happiness in this life: to love and to be loved. – George Sand.</p><p>A collection of (mostly) happy Solavellan drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bread

**Author's Note:**

> honestly because i need something to distract me from the temptation to look up trespasser spoilers. and, god knows solavellan has precious few 100% happy fics - these drabbles will be 100% (or maybe 99%) angst free.
> 
> if you have ideas for happy drabbles, please feel free to prompt them at my [tumblr](http://www.unseeliequeens.tumblr.com). thanks for reading! :)

He finds her in the kitchens, empty of all servants. Empty of anyone, really, but her. She is barefoot, wearing a loose nightdress that slips down one shoulder and makes her look as if she’d just risen from bed.

“Inquisitor,” he says, bemused, because he had not expected anyone to be awake an hour or so before dawn. Not even the servants are up so early. He clasps his hands behind his back. “What are you doing?”

She looks up, her hands knuckle-deep in white dough. She smiles at him and rubs her knuckles deeper into the dough, spreading it out across the flat surface of the flour-dusted table. “I’m making flatbread,” she says, wiping at her cheek with the back of her wrist. Her gesture leaves a white streak in its wake.

“Why?”

Her smile lessens, then, and she avoids his eyes. “Because the food here...” she sighs, the tips of her ears flushing. “We were lucky if we found some fruit or vegetables to last a week. Here, it’s—I can have oranges, or cocoa, or roasted meat with fruit sauce, or what have you. I just need to eat something that isn’t so _rich_ —”

“Ah.” He can understand her predicament. His time in the woods since awakening had reduced him to ram meat and river water, but at least Arlathan had accustomed him to sumptuous feasts. For someone who has lacked proper nutrition her entire life, though, it’s not hard to imagine that the adjustment can be… difficult.

He draws closer, resting his hands on the table, just a scant few inches from where her flour-dusted fingers continue to work. “May I join you, then?”

She blinks at him, her smile slowly returning. The sight of her mouth curving is a frequent enough occurrence, and yet he finds himself treasuring the occasion each and every time. “You don’t need to ask, Solas,” she teases, and moves to the side to allow him to join her. He rolls up the sleeves of his tunic, obeys her instructions carefully.

He has done many things, has many talents, but making bread, it seems, is not one of them. She laughs at him, often and heartily, but he cannot even bring himself to be annoyed by her amusement at his expense. In fact, it makes him smile more often than not, even if his ears flush a deeper pink with every teasing word of hers.

At last, when he pummels the dough to her satisfaction, she grants him a warm smile and places a hand on his bicep. “That’s it,” she says, ever encouraging. “All right, now we just need to heat the oven.” 

Solas takes a slow breath at the heat of her fingers on his arm. It has been so long since he has been _touched_.

Some days he wonders if she can sense that fact on some innate level, or if her proclivity for physical contact is simply one of the little things that contribute to her whole being. 

Solas lights the wood with little more than a flick of his fingers, and she pulls away from him to carefully move the dough onto the breadpan. When she’s done with putting the breadpan in the oven, she crosses the room to push open the windows. The dawn tints the sky pink and red and white outside, its arrival heralded by the few birds that have made their homes in Skyhold’s trees.

She stands on her tiptoes, lifts her face to the morning light, and inhales the crisp spring air, her smile widening. The dawn paints her in rosy golden hues and she—

She is _beautiful_ in its light.

He has always appreciated her appearance, objectively, but it is _this_ moment that he stills his movement and drinks in every inch of her.

“Solas? You’re staring.”

He blinks out of his reverie and composes himself by clearing his throat.

She draws closer, resting her hip against the edge of the table. She crosses her arms, heedless of the flour on her fingertips. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and his gaze follows the movement. After a short moment, while he tries to find his words again, she grins. “Don’t tell me we got our _flatbread_ wrong, too.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. It is simply… you have flour on your face.”

Her eyes widen, mortified, and she wipes hastily at the wrong side of her face. He shakes his head, she scrubs harder, and he laughs again. “No, lethallan, it’s—”

He steps toward her, his flour-free hand cupping the curve of her jaw. He wipes the flour free of her cheek with a touch so tender an onlooker may have called it a caress. Sunlight dances patterns across her face as she stills, her lips slightly parted on a breath, her gaze unwavering from his. It would be the easiest thing to lean down and kiss the spot he’s touched, to let his lips linger on the soft curve of her cheekbone, to—

No. Such an action is thoughtless of him, and most likely unwanted. He should not even be entertaining such fantasies.

He pulls away and steels his expression, fixing his hands at his sides. “Thank you,” she says, clearing her throat and looking away. “Um, the bread should be done in ten minutes or so, if you want some.”

He tilts his head. “Ma serannas,” he says, quietly. He had come to the kitchens for an early snack, after all. It would be impractical to return to his fresco empty-handed. While they wait, Solas studies the dawning sky outside and says, “Were you fond of baking in your clan?”

Her eyes light up, animating her entire face. “I loved it,” she replies, lifting herself up to sit on the table. She crosses her legs, and it brings her knees that much closer to his chest. “We didn’t have a lot to use, but I liked to experiment. One time I took a handful of blueberries we found and rolled them into the dough. The hearthmistress boxed my ears for that, called it wasting resources, but then I made enough blueberry rolls for the whole clan.” She laughs, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Not even Keeper Deshanna could scold me for _that_.”

Solas returns her smile, and she hops off the table, checking the flatbread cooking in the oven. “It’s ready!” she sing-songs, grinning as she grabs the handle of the breadpan and pulls it out. The flatbread is golden and crisp, browned at the edges.

“Perfect,” she breathes. He looks at her and cannot help but agree—internally. She rests the breadpan on the table and goes on a hunt for a knife. When she returns, victorious, the flatbread has cooled enough for her to cut the bread into equal squares.

Just as she hands a piece to Solas, the door opens, and a few servants enter. They stop at the sight of the elves, blinking in bewilderment. “Your Worship?” one of the cooks begins, his whole body tense and betraying his uncertainty.

She beams at them and waves a piece of her creation in the air.

“Morning! You want some flatbread?”

 

The next morning, he rises early, to put the finishing touches on the fresco’s first panel. But, inevitably, his stomach grumbles its protests, and he makes his way to the kitchen once he’s satisfied with his progress.

She is there, again, but this time she is making rolls. She looks up when he enters and waves. “Morning, Solas!” she greets him cheerfully, gesturing him over. She has several bowls in front of her this morning, and when he peers into each of them, his brows raise in surprise.

“I found the spice cabinet,” she explains, taking a pinch of cinnamon and massaging it into the dough. “Want to make some rolls with me?”

He should return to the fresco. He should distance himself from her, before she endears herself to him even more than she already has. There are many things he should be doing instead of baking bread with her in the kitchens during the darkest part of the night. But, surely, there was no harm in this one concession.

“I would like nothing more, lethallan,” he says, and takes his place at her side.


	2. Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today is it. today is the day i play the trespasser dlc. wish me luck, friends.  
> also, these drabbles will not be chronological. thanks for reading! :)

She shivers as another cold gust of wind wracks through all of them. She, Cassandra, Dorian, and Solas stand on the edge of a cliff overlooking Sahrnia. They have retaken Suledin Keep—now it is just a matter of finding the red lyrium and destroying it.

But first, the Inquisitor wants to sightsee.

“Mountains. Cold,” Dorian mutters. “Let’s bring Dorian! Yes, brilliant, Inquisitor. Thank you. Could we continue now, before there’s another snowfall?”

As if summoned, snowflakes begin to float lazily down from the gray sky, coating their eyelashes and melting on their cheeks. Cassandra shivers, and even Solas can feel the cold nipping at his toes, despite the heating spell staving off the worst of it.

“Just a moment,” she says. “I want to catch a snowflake.”

Dorian sighs. She steps forward, her face tilted toward the sky—

And the snowdrift gives out underneath her. She’s submerged under the snow before she can shout, much less before anyone can pull her back to safety.

Cassandra is the first to react, stumbling down the slope the snow creates with an alarmed “Inquisitor!”

Solas follows, then Dorian. Of all of them, though, Solas and Dorian are the most frenetic in their digging. Cassandra helps, grimacing whenever the cold seeps through her thick fur-lined gloves and becomes too much for her non-magically-warmed fingers.

It takes them five minutes to dig her out. All the while, Solas’s blood rushes in his ears, pounding in time with his heart. If they lose her to frostbite, of all things—he knows she is meant for greater things. And he refuses to let her leave his side so soon.

At last, they find gloved fingers in the snow. Dorian digs deeper, pulling the snow into a pile at his side, and breathes a sigh of relief when the snow gives way to reveal her face. She sputters, eyes flickering open.

Solas warms his fingers and touches her cheek. She sighs, leaning into his touch, and sticks out two hands. He grabs one and Dorian the other, and together they pull her into a sitting position. Solas takes both hands in his and begins to warm them, mixing magic with hot air breathed across her skin.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra starts, then hesitates. “Are you all right?”

Solas looks up as his thumbs rub heated circles into the back of her palms. Her lips are blue. Snow dusts her eyebrows and eyelashes. But she looks no worse for wear.

“She is uninjured,” Solas says, when she doesn’t answer. Her brow is furrowed, her lips are pursed in deliberation, and he wonders what she is thinking. “But I would recommend we return to the Keep, to minimize risk of illness.”

“Agreed,” says Cassandra, getting to her feet. Dorian follows, picking up his staff, discarded in his hurry.

“S-Solas,” she whispers, reaching out and brushing chilled fingers across his cheek. “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, vhenan?”

“I’m frost _smitten_ with you,” she says, and grins, inexplicably proud of herself.

Dorian makes a half-disgusted, half-exasperated noise. “She’s fine,” he declares, and kicks some of the snow from his pile back into her lap.

 

He accompanies her to her room at Suledin Keep, glad to see that she is still shivering. She still has some warmth, despite the magical winter’s attempts.

“They are making a hot meal for you right now, Inquisitor,” he tells her, turning his back as she starts to peel off her wet armor. He crouches before the fireplace, lighting the logs with some well-placed tongues of flames. As the wood begins to blacken and crack, he does his very best to ignore the sounds of wet clothing dropping onto the floor.

“You’re brooding again,” she says behind him.

He stands up, and she surprises him—she is always surprising him—by pressing herself against his back and wrapping her arms around his abdomen. His own arms lift to make room for her, his hands resting across her wrists, in an automatic gesture he can’t remember growing used to. He feels her press her face against his shoulderblade, feels the chill of her skin through his own clothes. “What is it, ma lath?”

It still sends a thrill through him to hear her say that. It should not, he knows this, but it does. He cannot turn away from her. He has been starved of affection for millennia, and he is so, so _hungry_.

“I am thinking,” he says, allowing a small smile when she mumbles an _uh oh_ against his back. He pulls away from her and turns, ghosting his fingers over her chilly skin. “You still risk hypothermia. Allow me to remedy that.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs, lifting her head and smiling when he pecks her proffered mouth. “You make a compelling argument. All right, go ahead.”

He cups her jaw and presses another kiss to the corner of her lips, following an invisible trail up the curve of her cheekbone to her earlobe. She sighs, turning her head and drawing him into a long, lingering kiss—he makes sure to warm his whole body as she presses into him, and she sighs again, her hands clutching his shoulders.

The door opens. He breaks the kiss in one smooth moment, turning toward the now-roaring fireplace and clasping his hands behind his back.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Worship. The Seeker thought you might want some cocoa,” a scout says. She thanks him, and when the door closes again he sees her drag a bear fur from its place draped across the bed. She draws it around her shoulders like some kind of crude cape, then grabs the tray of cocoa and sets it before the fireplace.

She pats the place beside her, looking up at him with a small smile. When he joins her side, she grabs a corner of the fur and lifts her arm to drape it across his shoulders. It’s big enough to cover the both of them; he’s certain that it may even cover three people, should the need arise.

She rests her head on his shoulder, leaning into him, and he responds by wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her closer. He places a cup of steaming cocoa into her hands, allowing himself a smile when she kisses his shoulder as thanks.

“Tell me a story,” she whispers, and he does. He tells her stories of Arlathan and of the Fade memories as the snow falls outside and the fire roars in its hearth, until she falls asleep. When her breathing is slow and even, he gently takes the empty mug of cocoa from her and rests it on the floor. He winds one hand under her knees and around her back, and lifts her in one smooth motion, turning and carrying her to the bed.

She murmurs in her sleep as he lays her down and begins to tuck her in. “Peace, my heart,” he whispers, “you are safe with me.”

The archaic Elvish is enough to soothe her. He smoothes her hair back from her face, extinguishes the candles with a gesture, and crawls into the bed beside her, pulling the covers around them both. He carefully drapes an arm across her waist and pulls her to him, savoring the closeness. He closes his eyes and allows himself to smell her hair, doing his best to imprint this moment into the deepest recesses of his memories.

Surrounded by warmth and the scent of her, it is easy to slip into the Fade and meet her there.


	3. Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO GLAD everyone's enjoying the fluff; I'm having a blast writing 99% happy things! thanks for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks, y'all know how to keep a girl going.
> 
> (speaking of 99% fluff - can YOU spot the 1% angst in this chapter?)

He finds her in the soon-to-be garden, her palms pressed into the dirt, her legs straight, her hips in the air. She looks like a dog stretching its back. He’s seen her do her stretches, of course—she often did them the Hinterlands before they began the day—but this is one of the stranger poses.

She lowers her head and sees him standing behind her. He expects her to smile, but panic flares in her eyes. She drops her hips and faces him, pressing her legs into the dirt and arching her back, lifting her chin to the morning sky.

“Don’t tell Josephine I’m here,” she pleads with him. She arches further, and her back audibly cracks. “I’m supposed to be—ugh, I’m supposed to be doing lessons. Join me? I need the company right now.”

He crouches in front of her, until they are eye-to-eye. “What lessons?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. To his knowledge, she has only had the occasional War Room meeting during the week they’ve been adjusting to Skyhold.

“Reading lessons,” she says. She sighs and lowers her arms, smoothly maneuvering herself until she’s sitting in the uncut grass facing him. “Josephine wants me to learn to read and write, Leliana wants me to learn Orlesian, Cullen has hinted he wouldn’t mind talking battle strategies with me, I apparently need a tutor to fight properly—” She stops, takes a deep breath, and rushes on. “Dorian gave me a few history books when he learned about my lessons, but he doesn’t know I can’t read, Vivienne wants me to learn whatever this Game is…”

“Inquisitor.” He sits as well, and her expression falls further. She trails off and stares down at the overgrown, uncut grass, pawing at the verdant spring stalks. “What brought this on?”

“Everything was fine at first. They just needed me to close the Breach, and I did that. But then one of those Chantry women asked me who the next Divine should be, and—” she stops, flushing scarlet. He has never seen her so upset before.

“And?” he prompts, gently. When she bites her lip and says nothing, he continues, “You need not tell me if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I told her I didn’t know what the Divine was—and no one ever told me, either, I thought the Divine was just some shem noble title or something. Ugh. And Josephine was there, too. It was just a reminder that their savior is a stupid Dalish savage,” she murmurs, misery written in the lines of her face.

She’d sat cross-legged during their conversation, but now she uncrosses her ankles and presses her feet together, resting her elbows on her inner knees and leaning forward. Solas watches her for a long moment, then says, quietly, “You are neither stupid nor savage, Inquisitor.”

She stills, breathing slowly through her nose, and lifts her face. The morning light casts shadows over her body. Her lips twitch up, forming half of a smile he’s grown quite fond of, but the glimpse is gone as soon as it had appeared. But it is progress, and Solas is willing to take it.

“You’d better be careful with that flattery of yours, Solas,” she says seriously, rising to her feet in one graceful motion. “Keep it up and I’ll be swooning into your arms soon enough.”

“Flattery implies insincerity,” he tells her. Her eyes widen, just for a moment, and then they crinkle in the corners. “But I will endeavor to catch you, should you fall.”

Her laugh fills the courtyard, loud and bright and _happy_. The tightness that had filled his chest at the sight of her unhappiness—he is only unused to seeing her without a smile on her face, and that is all—eases a bit. She holds her hands out to him, and he allows her to help him to his feet. If he holds her hands for a heartbeat longer than he should, well, no one can fault him for it.

“I should go find Josephine,” she whispers to him, as guiltily as if confessing a secret. “But I don’t want to.”

“Oh? And what do you wish to do, instead?”

Her smile is sharp and mischievous. “I want to procrastinate. Do you know how to write?”

Five minutes later, she is in the empty courtyard with pouches of seeds and gardening tools from the quartermaster, and he is with her, carrying a parchment already half-filled by his notes on the shards they’d found across Ferelden.

They walk side-by-side as she describes how she wants the courtyard to look—“It’ll be a garden,” she declares, nodding. “I planted an acorn, once, because the Keeper told me it became an oak tree. We left the area a few weeks later. I’d like to see something grow.”—and he sketches out the details accordingly.

She wants a path from the stone walkway across the courtyard to the tiny room across; on one side would be a gazebo for the Chantry believers, and the other, larger side, would be for the garden. She recounts all of it in detail, and soon he can envision it clearly.

“This will be the most beautiful part of the castle, Inquisitor,” he tells her, quite honestly. “It seems you have a decorator’s eye.”

She grins at him.

“Sweet talker,” she says, only half-joking, and then Josephine finds them.

 

Many months later, the gazebo is built, the pathway has been cleared of grass and is lined by stones, and the garden is full of tender, fragile blossoms. He finds her in the morning, before her lessons begin for the day, and when she sees him she grins widely, gesturing him over.

He kneels beside her in the dirt and stares at the snowball bush in front of her. It is a tiny thing, has grown only to his knees since its planting, but it already has a handful of blooms among its leaves. One of them is bigger than most, about as wide as three of his fingers, and already showing signs of wilting.

“I’ve never been in one place long enough to see things grow before,” she tells him, awe in her voice. She reaches out to touch the overripe snowball bloom. “It’s beautiful.”

The door opens, revealing a Chantry sister who has just finished her devotions. The Inquisitor looks toward the intrusion, and Solas takes advantage of her distraction to reach for the snowball flower and pluck it. He waits until the sister leaves and she looks back at him.

When he has her undivided attention, he sits up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, following it with the bloom. “You are beautiful,” he tells her, meaning every word.

Oh, how Mythal would laugh to see him now. Utterly besotted with this wonderful, beautiful, mortal woman.

The Wolf tamed at last, by soft touches, and constant questions, and bad puns.

“And _you_ are smooth,” she replies, rewarding him with a kiss. It doesn’t last long, however; as much as he would like to stay by her side, as much as he would like to spend every moment of his time with her, it is impossible. She has her lessons and he has his research. But she asks him for a spell to make sure the flower doesn’t wilt, and sneaks in another kiss before she has to go.

She wears the flower for the whole day, and he smells like snowballs.


	4. Morning, Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brain: write solavellan fic  
> me: but i have an exam  
> brain: you gotta

He is still adjusting to waking up. Before, he had dreaded it—he had always itched to roll over, close his eyes, and return to the comforts of the Fade. Every time he’d opened his eyes it had felt like a reminder of all the things he’d lost, of all the things he had sacrificed in vain for this bleak and barren future.

But today—today.

Today, she has somehow fought out of her cocoon of blankets meant for two to squirm into his arms. She’s still asleep, her hair matted to the side of her face, her lips parted in slow, peaceful breaths. Her toes are pressed against his calf and one of her arms is slung over his hip. The other is under her cheek, working in tandem with a pillow and his chest to cushion her head.

She shifts, murmuring something unintelligible, and he holds his breath.  He has never stayed overnight in her room. Even now, he should disentangle from her; steal back down to the rotunda before anyone can think anything amiss. Before whispers can begin to circulate.

He lifts his head and looks through the open stained glass windows, stares at the cloudless blue sky outside. It’s well past dawn—and the Inquisitor never sleeps past dawn, not unless she is truly exhausted. The whispers would circulate, anyway.

Very well. He would stay, then. Just this once.

She sighs in her sleep and shifts again, and a strand of hair falls across her cheek like rippling silk. Solas cannot stop his soft smile as he brushes the hair back and tucks it away behind her ear. He draws his hand down her bare arm, marveling at the softness of her skin, and when his fingertips trail over her open palm her hand curls around his.

He stiffens, then carefully interlaces their fingers. She sighs again, smiling in her sleep. He studies her face and listens to her breathing, searching for any evidence that she is awake and toying with him—but he is the master of deceptions, and her sleeping face is the picture of innocence.

He glances down at their conjoined hands, still unused to this sort of intimacy. It had been so long, he sometimes fears that he will blunder and drive her away. Even now, he knows it would be for the best, but he is a selfish man on the best of days.

When he looks up from their interlaced fingers, he sees her watching him with a sleepy smile on her face. “Good morning,” she says, and moves her head from pillow and arm to rest fully on his chest, her ear over his heart. Solas returns the soft greeting, unable to stop himself from leaning forward and kissing the top of her head.

For a moment, they lay in the bed, content with the silence. And then she sighs and pulls away from him, reaching her hands over her head to stretch toward the ceiling. Her back cracks audibly, and her sigh is less weary and more content. She rolls out of bed with all the grace he’s come to expect from her, and, after cleaning her teeth, moves to the dresser across the room.

She stops halfway, however, and when he moves he can see why. Concealed behind one of the pillars of the bed is a small folding table, set up with fresh bread and grapes and steaming cups of cocoa. A note is tucked under a cup of broth for dipping. She pulls it out and, after a quick scan, laughs. “Oh, Josie, you darling,” she says, and brings a cup of cocoa to him. Solas takes the cup with one hand and her wrist with the other, turning her palm over and brushing his lips over the delicate skin of her wrist.

Her eyes widen and then crinkle in the corners with a gentle smile. “I have a free morning,” she says, and he smiles against her palm. “Josie saw fit to cancel my lessons. But I still have to get ready for Heir in the afternoon.”

“Hm. You are mine, then, for this morning?” He brushes his lips against her lifeline and smiles against her skin when she shivers. He is has forced himself to accustom himself to the absence of such intimacy, but he is fast growing used to this privilege.

It cannot happen again, he knows. He has already waded from the safety of distance, and it is only a matter of time before the shore disappears behind him. But as she leaves his side to retrieve the rest of the breakfast platters and to curl up under his arm, he presses his lips against her hair and wonders if drowning would be such a terrible thing.

“All yours,” she agrees, and dips her roll into the broth. “But you know what I’m _really_ good at? Sleeping. It comes so naturally I could do it with my eyes closed.”

Solas lowers the roll he’d been about to bite and tilts his head back until it thumps against the headboard. “My heart,” he says, shaking his head. The exasperation in his voice is unmistakable, and yet he still feels a rebellious tug at the corner of his lips.

“You know what you get when you eat rolls in bed?” she asks, taking another bite. “ _Crumb_ -y sleep.”

He presses his thumb into the curve of her shoulder and she laughs, her hair tickling his skin. The sound is enough to pull an exasperated smile from him. She finishes her roll and reaches for a cup of cocoa, sipping quietly. When she puts it down, she leans into his chest, and he nestles his cheek against her hair like it’s become a second nature.

Perhaps it has.

“I love this,” she confesses, in the still morning air. “Will you stay more often? I know last night was unusual…”

“You fell asleep practicing Elvhen,” he tells her, sipping at his own cocoa. “You do not need to run yourself ragged for others’ expectations, vhenan. Let yourself have this morning of peace.”

“Peace,” she sighs, wistful, and he almost considers asking her for a joke, so that he will not have to hear such melancholy in her voice.

Almost.

He decides he is not _that_ desperate.

She sets her cocoa down on its tray and reaches for the grapes, settling against his chest once more once she has her quarry. “Solas, when this Inquisition business is over… would you come with me, back to my clan? They’re different than the ones you met, I promise. They won’t treat you like the others. And once they know what you mean to me—” she stops, and though he can’t see her expression, he can see a steady flush spreading down her ears and neck. She pops a grape into her mouth rather than continue, and waits for his answer.

Solas stares at her hair, his fingers stroking through it absently. His heart hammers under his ribcage at her words, and though he prays she can’t notice, he knows she can. “Once they know…?” he prompts, unsure what he expects. That they would turn her away, scorn her for loving a flat-ear. That they would tolerate him at best but look at him with cold, hard eyes, seeing no one but an outsider who willfully turned his back on his heritage.

“They won’t be able to leave you alone,” she says, sounding half-apologetic. Her answer startles a laugh out of him. She hits him, an adorable furrow appearing between her brows. “I’m serious! I turned away every potential bonded. My mother will want to know everything about you, how you managed to capture my _wild, restless heart_.”

She says the last three words with practiced ease, as if it’d been quoted to her over and over again. He manages to stop his second bout of laughter, but he smiles as he plucks a grape from her fingers.

“I fear I have no better answer than she does,” he tells her.

“You are a liar, ser,” she teases, and his breath catches hard in his lungs.

“Not on this,” he assures her, and if she notices his pause, she doesn’t indicate it.

“My cousin will flirt with you _all_ night to test your fidelity. My father—”

“Vhenan.” He laughs, moves her and the food so that he can see her face. There’s still an imprint of the sheets on her cheek, and her hair is still mussed from her night under the heap of blankets. Still, she is beautiful. He cups her face in his hands, presses a leisurely kiss to the corner of her lips.

That silences her, and she stills, watching him with her bottom lip snagged between her teeth and her eyes dark with anticipation. “Ane rahn’sasha tel’varem eman in min tiralas,” he tells her. The sincerity of his words aches in his bones. Before she can inevitably ask what he means, he leans forward and gives her the first proper kiss of the morning.

It is tender, languid and tasting like grapes—still, she pushes him away with a playful light in her eyes. She bumps her nose against his and, grinning, says—

“Go clean your teeth so I can kiss you properly, emma lath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELVISH:  
> Ane rahn’sasha tel’varem eman in min tiralas: you are all I have left in this world
> 
> ... so should the lavellans meet solas? (just imagine this conversation and then she gets a letter about her clan's death. YIKES, MY HEART.)


	5. Morning, Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains trespasser spoilers!

He awakens to her in his arms. Despite the years that have passed, nothing has changed in her sleeping habits—half her face still buries into a pillow, and her toes still press against his calves.

Solas presses his nose into her hair and inhales deeply, committing the smell of her to memory. _Beautiful_ , he thinks, and then says it aloud, to the silence where the only ears that hear him are his own. His fingers weave through her hair, brushing loose strands out of her face, and his light, brief touches stir her from sleep.

“We stayed too long,” she murmurs, against his chest, and Solas smiles against her hair.

“We did.” Still, he cannot bring himself to regret such a lapse in judgement.

She slings an arm across his hip, pulls her head from the pillow to his chest. She lifts her leg and moves it over his knees, until half of her body is on top of him. “I’m not letting you go,” she murmurs, pressing a long, lazy kiss to a sensitive spot under his jaw. “Not this time.”

Solas shuts his eyes, but the temptation to wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her closer is too strong to resist. He is such a greedy man, and she is a feast for the senses. He sighs and opens his eyes, then turns onto his side, so they are embracing properly. He wants to gorge himself on the sight of her, the scent, the taste—

She smiles at him, and seeing what he had once taken for granted makes an invisible fist clench around his heart. Solas kisses her, once, twice, fleeting brushes of lips against lips that lighten his grief and make him forget his duty.

“My heart,” he whispers against her lips, and she responds by lifting her right hand and brushing her knuckles across his cheekbone. He catches her wrist and turns his head, uncurling her fingers and pressing a kiss to each fingertip.

She’s smiling when he looks at her. “Would you like some breakfast?” she asks, quietly. “I can probably get some rolls cooked up in half an hour. With you, it’ll be shorter. Like old times.”

He knows he should return soon. He has plans, after all, plans that are bigger than him, bigger than his love for the woman who still inexplicably believes that the path he walks can be diverted.

But her offer—like old times, she had said, and it makes him smile at how long ago the memory seems—is too tempting to resist, and so he gets up with her to cook rolls. She has no cinnamon to pinch into the dough, no glaze to paint over the bread, no broth to dip it in, and yet the rolls he has for breakfast are more satisfying than the finest feasts of Arlathan.

And the fact that she flicks flour at him, only to wipe it off with laughter and kisses… he has no complaints for this morning. It’s the most peaceful he’s had in weeks.

The dawn is pink and rosy when she asks him to help her harvest the apples, and he agrees because he is not ready to leave her.

Soon he will find the strength to say goodbye, but not yet.

Her cottage is small, nestled somewhere safe in a country—he does not know the precise location, only knows that it is safe for the both of them—but beautiful. In between the times he’s seen her, she’s nursed a dying garden to full bloom. Roses crawl up the stone walls and frame the wrought iron windows, apple trees shade a corner of her garden, and elfroot, embrium, and lavender grow side-by-side.

She finds a basket and tucks it under her left arm. Her right hand intertwines with his, and together they finish their breakfast and walk out into the morning light.

The garden is shaded, the grass wet with dew, and somewhere a songbird is greeting the dawn. Everything feels sharp, and for a moment he allows himself to believe that this quiet life in the cottage is how he spends his days.

He can almost imagine it. He can imagine them curled up in front of the fireplace at night, reading a book—he can imagine little feet filling the house, high-pitched laughter and pleas of _papae!_

The longing is sharp and bitter, and he swallows it down. “No brooding,” she tells him, squeezing his hand. They stand in front of her orchard, an impressive collection of three apple trees, grown so close together their branches threaten to intertwine. Solas looks at her and her teasing smile softens into something fonder. “You know the rules. You brood, you gotta tell me why.”

Solas swallows and pulls her close. She drops the basket at their feet and wraps her arm around him, her hand clutching the back of his tunic. “My love,” he begins, and pushes aside the loose neckline of her nightdress to kiss the skin hidden underneath. He pauses and takes a short breath, smiling even while his eyes burn. “Imagine our life here.”

Her laugh is soft and quiet. “It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? You’d get bored, though, staying with little old me for a thousand years.”

“Never,” he promises, his arms tightening around her. The need for his departure is pressing upon him, and all he can think is, _Not yet. Not yet. Let me have this._

“Sweet talker,” she whispers, and this time he kisses the delicate column of her throat. In a change he would find ironic, she is the one who pulls away, and picks up the basket with a wavering smile. “C’mon, ma sa’lath, we have work to do.”

When the apple picking is done, the sun is just peeking over the horizon, and the sky is a beautiful mix of pinks and blues and whites. Her shoulders are dappled in sunlight, and her eyes shine when she looks at him.

He steals a kiss, and she tastes of apples.

When they return to the cottage, she leaves the apples on the counter— _to take into town_ , she explains, _so the townsfolk can get used to me_ —and takes him back into the bedroom. Their armor rests on a table pushed against the far side of the wall, but he is not yet ready for his armor, for what it signifies.

She sits at the vanity and huffs, running her lone hand through her hair in an attempt to untangle the knots that accumulate overnight. “Allow me, vhenan,” he says, and pulls the desk chair to sit behind her. He takes a comb and some oils from Skyhold, and carefully runs it through her hair until it shines.

She watches him through the half-clouded mirror as he braids her hair, and when he is done she takes hold of one of his hands. They stand together and walk to the table; Solas is the first one to pull away this time, reaching for his armor with admirably steady hands.

When nothing remains but the wolf pelt, she is the one who slings it over his head and tugs it into place, smoothing the fur over with her hand. For a short moment, there is nothing but the songbirds trilling outside. Her fingers dig into the fur and she looks up. “We should stay,” she blurts, her eyes wide and pleading. “We should smash the eluvian and then find a way to tell everyone it’s over. We should—”

He finds the strength to smile, and he rests his forehead against hers. “My heart,” he whispers, and her hand creeps from the wolf pelt around his abdomen to the back of his neck. “I would like nothing more.”

“There’s a _but_ in there somewhere, isn’t there?” she says, and the miracle of her is that she somehow sounds teasing. There is not a trace of resentment in her voice.

“But you are not yet dressed,” he says, and she obliges with a sigh. He helps her when she asks, but it is clear she has grown used to dressing herself. She leaves her prosthetic off on purpose, and after the second time he figures out why.

“Solas, help me with this,” she says, and when he moves to aid her, she intercepts him with a dizzying, heady kiss that frays his control and weakens his will. After the fourth time he falls into the same trap, he raises an eyebrow at her and refuses to help further.

At last, they’re both dressed, and ready for the day. The dawn is long past, but the day is still young, and the dew on the grass still fresh. They leave the cottage hand-in-hand and she tells him miniscule details about her days. _I saw a doe and her fawn the other day. Cole came by to visit. The leaves are coming back to the trees. I love spring, don’t you?_

He, in turn, shares his own stories. _One of my agents told me how you gave them some bread before you sent them away. She said they were delicious, and she wished she could tell you in person. I watched a sunrise and thought of you, my love. I met a spirit three nights ago. When I asked her name, she said that one day she hoped to call herself Wisdom._

They’re almost at the eluvian, but at that she stops and turns to him, eyes wide. “Does she—?”

Solas shakes his head, pretends he doesn’t notice how her hand squeezes his in sympathy. “She is insatiable for knowledge, like her predecessor. She did not know me, but I have—hope.”

She smiles, warm and genuine, and once again he has to wonder how she can even stand the sight of him. “Hope is a good thing to have these days, sa’lath.”

The eluvian they reach is small, nondescript, and its frame is simple wood. It’s hidden behind a mound of boulders, easy to reach and easy to overlook. They stop in front of the eluvian, and she grips his hand. “Solas, will you do me a favor?”

He tenses as he turns, his face a mask but his body betraying his wariness. She half-smiles. “Don’t worry, vhenan. I just… tell Wisdom about your plan. Listen to what she says. And come back to me, to tell me her response.”

Solas watches her for a long moment. And then he nods, bringing both hands to his lips and kissing their knuckles. “I will talk to her,” he says, and unlocks the eluvian with a silent command. The glass ripples, casting blue light over the both of them.

“Come home soon, my love,” she whispers, and he smiles as he steps through the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY there were happy parts so this chapter totally counts right RIGHT


	6. Creations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lafaiette this is all ur fault thanks
> 
> prompted on [tumblr](http://roosettes.tumblr.com); hmu if you want to see something :)

At first, his sketchbook is meant for survival. 

He draws poisonous plants, annotates the margins, jots down interesting snippets of conversation topics to research: Chantry, Ages, Tevinter, and more facts about this strange new world to learn from Wisdom.

He finds her one day sleeping on his couch, her book of Orlesian resting open on her chest. Solas cannot find the heart to wake her, so instead he pulls the book from her hands and rests it on a desk. He pulls a blanket from the back of his chair and brings it to the chaise, draping it over her prone form.

When she smiles in her sleep, the artist in him does not hesitate. In an instant, he has turned to grab a rub of charcoal and his sketchbook. He flips past the poisonous plants, the guides for hunting and skinning prey, and smoothes down a blank page. And he draws her face, serene and beautiful in sleep. When he finishes his sketch, he looks over his handiwork, then back at her, and as he swallows his heart tugs hard in his chest.

 _This may be trouble_ , he thinks, and puts the sketchbook away, determined not to fall prey to such easy impulses again.

It happens again, but this time it’s after he sees her stretching in the garden. Next it’s her at a campfire, her arms around her knees as she watches the stars. Then her smile, then her hair, and her hands, and suddenly what he had done on a whim becomes a hobby he devotes himself to almost as much as his mural or his research.

He does not tell anyone of his secret, most precious pastime. Whenever she is not looking his way, he is watching her, studying the details of her face, remembering particular scenes to immortalize in parchment and charcoal. He draws her working in the garden, draws her practicing her dance as she stutters Orlesian with Josephine, draws the bow of her lips and the crinkles in her eyes when she laughs.

Somehow, time passes, and his sketchbook is filled with creations of her, more than anything else. He stains his fingertips black on a daily basis, working to capture her likeness for—for—for himself, for when this age has passed on and he finds himself in need of comforting memories.

One night, she breathes  _vhenan_  in his ear, and it feels as though she has wrapped a warm fist around his heart. He returns the endearment, holding her until she sleeps, and when her breathing is soft and steady he disentangles from her and finds his sketchbook, his mind haunted by visions of what-if.

He picks up his charcoal with a trembling hand and sits by the fireplace. He draws her with a hairnet sparkling with crystals draped in her hair, sketches her delighted smile as she dances in an Elvhen bridal gown. When that sketch is done, he rests his black-tipped fingers over his mouth, debating internally. 

 _I cannot,_  he thinks, and yet he finds a fresh page and begins again.

His hand trembles as he outlines the smooth curve of his heart’s bare back, the wild snarls of her hair when she’s just woken from sleep that tumbles between her shoulderblades. When he moves to the next part of the image plaguing his mind, he grits his teeth and shuts his eyes, covering his mouth with his shaking hand again.

It is a hopeless dream, he knows. His sins are too grave and too plentiful to deserve such a blessing. And yet he wants it, fiercely, more than he’s ever desired anything else.

He steadies his breath and his hand, and begins to sketch her arms, cradling a swaddled babe to her chest. He makes short, heavy strokes for the child’s hair, wispy and thick, and curves the charcoal downward to indicate the blanket half-slipping down his child’s form. He can almost imagine it, imagine her humming to the baby as it—no,  _she_ —coos against her shoulder.

By the time he finishes the feet, his teeth are gritted so hard he fears they will break. “I cannot,” he whispers to the still air, hoping that the words will be more effective than before. Still, the reminder does nothing to ease the ache in his chest, and he stares at the drawing of his heart and their child with his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists.

Footsteps whisper across the floor, too fast for him to shut the sketchbook, and in a moment she is there, her chin nestled in the crook of his neck. “Come to bed, love,” she whispers, pressing a kiss against his jaw. Her arms cross over his chest, and he turns to rest his forehead against her temple, closing his eyes.

He knows the exact moment she sees his drawing, because she inhales softly, surprised. “Solas,” she whispers, and he doesn’t respond. “Solas, this is beautiful. May I?”

He opens his eyes to find her reaching for the sketchbook, and he allows her to take it, though his heart hammers in trepidation—what if she decides to turn a few pages back, and discover what else he has sketched? What if she—

She settles in his lap, her legs thrown over an arm of the chair he sits in, crossed at the knee. He places his hand on her bare knee without even thinking, his thumb massaging soothing circles into the soft skin he finds there. She brushes her fingertips along his cheekbone in response, and he leans into her touch, lifting his other hand to cradle the back of her palm and kiss her fingertips.

She lifts her head, her eyes bright in the firelight. “Her, or him?” she asks, just as softly as before, and Solas is so grateful he kisses her. It is tender, chaste, but lingering, and she rests her forehead against his when they part.

“Her,” he whispers, and his voice has somehow gone hoarse. “Though I would love a son no less.”

She closes the sketchbook and twists around to rest it on the end table. She makes no attempt to see what else he’s done, and he is so grateful he kisses her again when she faces him once more. She laughs at his enthusiasm, her lips lifting against his, and he can feel her joy as surely as the heart that hammers in his chest.

“When Corypheus is gone,” she murmurs, resting a hand against his cheek. Her eyes are sparkling and her smile is infectious in the warm safety of Skyhold’s highest tower. She kisses him again, a giddy enthusiasm in every nip of teeth that makes him grab her hips and pull him fully onto his lap, so her legs straddle his hips. She breaks the kiss and laughs again, and the sound of her joy is the loveliest thing he’s heard in aeons. “When Corypheus is gone, Solas, we can start our family. I promise. I didn’t know you even wanted children.”

“Believe me, vhenan,” he rasps, his hands drifting over her ribs to pull her closer to him. “I did not even consider it until I met you.”

Her lips quirk up in a smile. “Would you believe me if I said the same thing about you?” she asks, bumping her nose against his. He steals another kiss and her palm flattens over his heart, warm and steady and real.

They stay there, basking in the heat of the fire and in the warmth of each other, until at last she lifts her head and sighs, climbing off of his lap. When she stands, she offers a hand to him, and he takes it without hesitation. “It’s late, love,” she says, and laughs when he wraps an arm around her and pulls her closer. “We should go to bed.”

“In a moment,” he says, and presses his face into her hair, wanting to remember every piece of this moment. He holds her, listening to her quiet, steady breaths, the crackle of logs in the fireplace, the wind whistling outside. When he releases her, it is with the utmost reluctance, and together they walk to the bed.

When they’re both under the covers, she burrows against him, throwing an arm over his torso and pressing her toes to his calves. “Sweet dreams,” she mumbles into his chest, and he hears himself return the phrase as his arms tighten around her.

When he finally closes his eyes and slips into the Fade, she is waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas's drawing insp by [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/f9/54/10/f95410f2540b1a040bc5d23283bdd65a.jpg).


	7. Motherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up two days late with an update*
> 
> It's not what you think. I promise.

“Solas,” she sings, “I’m going to be a mother!”

Solas stiffens, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Dorian rest his arms on the library balcony. “Might not want to announce that to all of Skyhold, love,” Dorian calls. “What would it do to your reputation? First you consort with Tevinter mages, apostate elves, and Qunari spies, and now this. Tsk, tsk.”

Solas turns around, his brow furrowed in confusion, and—and he sees a baby dragon, no bigger than her palm, curled on her shoulder like a cat. It is an Abyssal, all golden scales and red-brown cat eyes. With a sharp, high cry, it unsteadily balances on its hind legs to stretch its half-translucent wings.

“Isn’t she a marvel?” she coos, holding out her hand, and the dragonling hops onto it like it is a well-trained bird. With a noise that sounds remarkably close to a purr, the creature stretches again, nuzzling the underside of her jaw. “They hatched last night. Frederic could hardly contain himself. She has a sister and two brothers. I’ve named the others Shartan, Legolas, and Lyna, but I can’t think of a name for this one. Any thoughts?”

Solas cannot stop his small smile. She has clearly named them with a pattern in mind—all elven leaders of great renown, appearing during times of great need to lead the People and, in the Hero’s case, the nations of the world. He would suggest someone from Arlathan, but for once, he can think of a better example from which to draw inspiration.

“I think you should name her after yourself, Inquisitor,” he says, and she blinks. “You have named these dragons after great elven leaders, have you not? And each successive name represents a new era in your people’s history. You are the newest face of the elves, lethallan. You lead the People and the world to a better future, as your predecessors did before you. I cannot think of a name more apt.”

He can detect a blush under her cheeks, and she avoids his eyes. “Isn’t it a bit… vain to name her after myself, though?” she asks, and Dorian laughs from upstairs.

“I am inclined to agree with our hobo apostate friend, here. And if you have qualms, then allow _me_ to name her.” He clears his throat and straightens, assuming the posture of the announcer at Halamshiral. “From henceforth, this dragon shall be known as—”

“All right, all right,” she cuts in. She looks down at the creature curled against the hollow of her throat, and raises a finger to stroke a line down golden scales. “What do you think, da’isenatha? Do you like being named after me?”

The dragonling purrs again, rubbing against her finger, its serpentine eyes sliding shut. Its tail flicks back and forth, and when it tires of her caress it lifts its shaky wings and hops onto her shoulder. She laughs and turns her smile onto Solas. “Would you like to hold her, lethallin? What about you, Dorian?”

“Me? Oh, no, no, I much prefer to watch,” says the mage above them. She gives him a skeptical look, her eyebrow arching, and the Tevinter rolls his eyes at her as he pushes off the balcony and heads for the staircase.

Solas cannot get his denial past his lips. He has work to do, but he has never seen an infant dragon, much less had an opportunity to hold one. And he has never been able to deny her anything when she smiles at him, sincere joy in her face and genuine kindness in her eyes—her smiles reawaken something in him, something near-forgotten during his sleep and year of isolation.

So instead of turning back to his research, Solas wordlessly nods. Her whole face lights up as her smile returns. She crosses to him, whispering soft nothings to the dragonling, and when he holds out his hand, she cups her palms over his own, tilting her wrist to encourage the creature to leave the safety of her hold.

At last, the animal makes a high-pitched whine and stumbles onto his palm. The claws prickle at first, and the tail that curls around his forefinger is rough. But then the dragonling looks up at him, its nostrils flared, a fierce intelligence behind its eyes, and Solas breathes out a laugh. “Hello, da’len,” he says, and the dragon rears its head, as if preening.

“Pet her,” she encourages. “Down her spine, between her wingbones.”

He lifts a finger and hesitates, waiting to see its reaction. The dragon does not look alarmed in the least. For an instant he thinks that the Inquisitor has already spoiled it, to the point that it expects a pet instead of an attack, but then it tilts its head at him, and he knows that it is prepared for either option.

He lowers his finger, hesitating, expecting a bite or a burst of flame at any moment, but it does not attack him as he rests his fingertip against its ridged head. It has no horns, not yet, but he can feel the bumps where they will one day grow. He strokes down the bumpy ridge of its spine, and its wings flutter as its eyes close. It purrs so hard that it vibrates in his palm, and another breathless laugh leaves his lips.

After a minute, it noses his finger away and flaps its wings, turning back to its mother. She holds her hand a little distance apart from his own, but the dragon jumps fearlessly. Its wings flutter, but they do nothing to support its weight.  She catches it and grins, then turns to Dorian. The Tevinter mage is visibly more nervous, but once the dragon is in his palm he loses most of his anxiety.

As he lifts the creature to his shoulder, he smiles. “Fascinating. I’m holding a baby dragon. An actual baby dragon. Mother would faint to see me now.”

The dragonling preens again, spreading its wings wide and raising its head. The daylight catches across its scales, painting some amber, others bronze, but it glitters golden. “A beautiful creature,” Solas says, nodding, and the dragon makes a clicking noise, as if it understands and agrees with him. “Motherhood suits you, Inquisitor.”

She grins, and takes the dragon back when Dorian gestures for her to remove it from his shoulder. “Thank you, Solas. I just hope they don’t become too much of a handful. Frederic says we should start helping them learn to fend for themselves so they don’t become too dependent on us, but I don’t know. I think having four dragons against Corypheus could be useful. Anyway, I should give her back to Frederic. Vivienne’s going to wonder where I am. I’ll see you two around!”

Solas watches her go, cooing to the creature as softly as if it were her own child.

“We’re in trouble,” Dorian says behind him.

“Indeed,” Solas agrees. The dragonling is clearly wrapped around her finger already, much like most of the Inquisition. He cannot help but wonder what the world will be like in the future, with this woman as Herald of its most beloved prophet, leader of a rising independent organization, and mother of four dragons.

In anyone else’s hands, he would be terrified of such power.

But he cannot bring himself to worry.

Not yet, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> da'isenatha - little dragon


	8. First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS LOOK FANART OF LAST CHAPTER:  
> http://i.imgur.com/w5md920.png
> 
> (done by the glorious bloodwrit on tumblr)

The cedar logs burning near-constantly in the hearths ensure that all of Skyhold remains warm, despite the middle of winter settling over the fortress. Just last night, Solas had listened to a snowstorm batter at his windows.

He works by light of a dozen candles, reading up on Thedosian modern history. Normally he would read such books in the privacy of his room, but most of Skyhold is silent today—either in the tavern or in individual rooms, celebrating the First Day of the new year.

After several minutes of quiet, only broken by Helisima working upstairs, Solas hears the wind whistle into the castle. He is nowhere close to the front doors, but he can still feel the chill as if he is outside himself.

And then she walks in, smelling of honeyed wine and crisp, wintry air. Snowflakes fleck her hair and melt on her reddened cheeks, and her eyes are too bright. “Solas!” she says, and her voice echoes in the rotunda, disturbing Leliana’s ravens. She sways a little, and tries to hide it by walking to his desk and cocking her hip against it. “Where’ve you been? We miss you at the tavern.”

“It has been some time since I indulged in such festivities,” he says. She is, perhaps, too drunk to read the title of his book, but he still closes it and turns it over. He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers in front of him. “What can I do for you, lethallan?”

“You need to win me back my money,” she says, quite seriously. Her words are only a little slurred. “Varric’s cheating. And I know you don’t have any tells.”

“Your lack of skill at gambling is hardly my fault, lethallan,” Solas says, but he feels a smile twitch at the corner of his lips. She pouts, an endearing sight, and closes her eyes.

“Please?” she asks. Her eyes open, then narrow, as if she is doing her best to intimidate him. The urge to smile grows stronger. “Otherwise I’m gonna sing. And if I sound like a dying cat sober, imagine me singing… drunk.”

“A grave threat indeed.”

She blinks, then grins at him.

“So in my Orlesian lessons today,” she starts abruptly, with a small giggle, “I was trying to describe members of the Inquisition, and Leliana had to guess them based on what I said. But apparently I was saying ‘horse’ even though I meant ‘hair’. So—when I said this person has black hair—she thought I said this person has a black horse!” She snorts, almost keeling over his desk with the force of her laughter. She places her palm on the book to steady herself, and by the time she’s done laughing Solas cannot fight his smile.

“I imagine Sister Nightingale was confused,” he replies, and she nods, sighing.

“Yup. Who needs Orlais anyway. Will you win my money back for me?” she asks. When he only arches an eyebrow at her, her grin falters and her eyes widen. “Did I already ask you that?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Again, she falls into silence, her eyes tracing over the mural on the walls. Solas waits. It is the first time he has ever seen the Inquisitor drunk, and it is an endearing sight. He thinks of the snows outside, and his thoughts stray to another snowy day. A day that featured an intact Haven and the taste of apples and sweetbread on his tongue.

Ah, but that would lead to trouble. Better to keep her at a distance, than to entangle their hearts and cause her pain. Any romantic ties can only distract him from his goals.

But that does not mean he cannot enjoy their friendship. The Inquisitor is good company, better than most. She has a way of drawing out his laughter while pushing thoughts of his past to the furthest reaches of his mind. She has a way of making him feel as though he is a part of this world, and even welcome in it.

She hops off his desk, wobbling a bit before she finds her footing and turns to him. Sticking out a hand, she grins at him. Her hair is still sprinkled with snowflakes, despite the warmth of the castle. “Do you know the song they sing on First Day?” she asks.

Solas does not know how to tell her the truth, so he settles for shaking his head. Her hand remains in the air. “All right. Dance with me, and I’ll sing it to ya.”

“Is a dance truly required?” he asks. Once the words leave his lips, he realizes that he’s just made an ass of himself. In her state, she likely would not understand his meaning, and take it as a sign he does not wish to be in her company. Nothing can be further from the truth.

Something flickers across her face and she lowers her hand. But Solas takes it before it can fall back to her side. He stands up and smiles at her, in an effort to soothe the blow he may have inflicted. “Ir abelas, lethallan. Sing to me. I will lead.”

He folds his hand over hers, and rests a hand on her waist, beginning to move into a gentle one-two step, easy enough for her to dance with him. She stares intently at his shoulder, her forehead scrunched as if she struggles to recall the words. But at last, her face lights up with remembrance.

“Should old… la da da… be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should… la la laaa la, hmm la… and old times’ sake? For old times’ sake, my dear, laugh with me this one night. For when tomorrow comes, I’ll be off, with… laaa da-da mm.”

Her voice is slurred and off-key, but it seems that she puts effort into this song, as opposed to when she’s humming ditties in the halls. She continues her tune of half-remembered lyrics until she slows to a stop and falls silent. After a moment, Solas stops the dance. He breathes in, and his inhale takes some of her scent, mostly drowned by the honey wine.

Her hand on his shoulder slips around his ribs, and the hand in his pulls away to join its twin. She rests her cheek against his heartbeat, humming the tune under her breath with a soft smile on her face.

Ah. So she is a happy drunk who enjoys physical contact. Solas clears his throat, but she only sighs and sways softly. He catches another inhale of her scent and his weakness wins. Closing his eyes, Solas wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, resting his chin on the crown of her hair.

“Happy First Day, Solas,” she murmurs into his tunic, and he returns the phrase into her hair.

At last, when she starts to pull away, he lets her go. But he catches her hand before she can detach herself completely; he smiles at her and walks out of the rotunda, leading her to the main staircase. She follows willingly, laughing at something known only to herself under her breath with every few steps.

“Where are we going?” she asks when they reach the staircase’s platform, her hand still in his. Solas smiles at her.

“I am sure your friends at the tavern miss you,” he says, and she presses her lips together, tugging on his hand to stop him short. He turns back to her, and she levels him with a somber stare.

“They’re your friends, too, Solas.”

The statement almost catches him off-guard. Solas blinks, and looks back at the tavern. “Come, lethallan,” he says, gently leading her back down the stairs to make sure she doesn’t stumble and fall. “Varric owes you several sovereigns, as I recall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quizzie's song is shamelessly inspired by auld lang syne.


	9. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted on [tumblr](http://stardustlings.tumblr.com)!

He cannot move; it is too cold. 

The blizzard inside the cave screams, winds howling against the stalactites. Snow sticks to his armor, crusts in his eyebrows and eyelashes and melts against his lip. His staff is beside him, within an arm’s reach, but he is numb and cannot do anything.

The firepit — the only thing capable of staving off the Hakkonites’ magic — is three flights above him. A rogue had emerged from the shadows to tackle him; the Avaar is dead, now, but Solas’s heart still beats. He must grab his staff, fight his way through the storm and find warmth, else he will freeze on the cavern floor.

Solas tries to breathe, and inhales ice. The frost seeps into his bones, numbing him to everything save the slowing thud of his heartbeat in his ears and his long, heavy breaths. As he stares at his pale hands, the world seems to slow.

He cannot move; it is too cold. 

“ _Solas!_ ”

Her voice pierces through the endless howling of the gale around him. The Inquisitor appears, her braid dusted with snow, her weapon nowhere to be seen. Solas bites back a groan of pain when she hooks his arm over her shoulders and heads back toward the firepit. She is hot, almost scalding, and her heat sends needles of pain through his side.

The storm weighs on her, too; she staggers halfway up the steps, and the snowflakes that brush her face do not melt right away. Solas’s fingers twitch, but he cannot help her. She has to take all of his weight on the journey to the firepit. 

He cannot move; it is too cold.

When the firepit comes into sight, she collapses to her knees, lowering him carefully to the ground. The fire chases away the blizzard’s potent chill and brings agony with it. Solas gasps, turning his face from the flames. He must embrace the pain to survive, he knows, but — a fresh spike of warmth burns through his fingertips and Solas grits his teeth, tears beading in the corner of his eyes.

“St-stay with me,” she pleads above him, her teeth chattering. She rests her hands in front of the fire, then presses them to his face. She cups his cheeks and rests her forehead against his own, her warm breath ghosting across his lip and melting the ice gathered there. “St-stay w-with me, S-Solas. C’mon, vhenan.”

A shudder wracks through him as his foot awakens and the muscles in his leg cramps. She sits up, her hands shaking as she reaches for her potions. She pulls out a vial filled with blue liquid, too bright to be lyrium. She raises it to his lips, cupping the back of his skull. Her glove is wet. “Drink th-this. It’ll w-warm you up.”

The potion burns, too, and its heat spreads through his limbs, loosening the locked joints and frozen muscles. Solas drinks it all and she tosses the bottle to the side, grabbing his hand and rubbing it between her own palms.

The numbness eases, little by little, and as he breathes he finds the strength to talk. “Vhenan,” he says, then stills, the muscle of his heart contracting at the endearment. He’d forgotten to be detached, however briefly. 

Pain flashes in her eyes, but her jaw squares as she takes his other hand and repeats her process. Water drops cling to the curve of her cheekbones, and he cannot tell if they are tears or melted snowflakes.

“Inquisitor,” he tries again. “Inquisitor, I am well.”

“You’re freezing,” she says, breathing into her gloves. Her breath forms a pale cloud. “Stay here. I’m going to get your staff.”

She picks up her weapon and disappears into the storm; the firepit is the singular point of light in the cave, the only thing that seems capable of holding the Hakkonites’ blizzard at bay. Solas watches her go, and groans as he sits up. She returns blue-lipped, crowned in white, with fresh blood on her armor and his staff in her hands.

Solas takes her to the firepit and warms his hands. He holds her face between his palms, rubs his hands over her torso and curls his fingers over her own. He melts the snow in her hair and dries the water with a gesture. He takes one of those potions from her belt and presses it against her lips, ensuring she drinks every last drop.

It has been — some time, since he last was able to take care of her thus. He tries to keep his touches clinical. Despite his best efforts, he cannot stop the worry that fuels him from bleeding into his examination; it turns a probing touch across the back of her hand into an almost caress.

When he has done all he can, he holds her, cherishing her every shiver. Shivering means she is still warm enough to move. He closes his eyes and warms his entire body, pulling her closer. The spell will not hold against the blizzard, but it will aid them here, within the sanctuary of the firepit. 

Damp gloves press between his shoulderblades, and she rests her face against his fur stole. “I hate winter,” she mutters, shuddering. Solas remembers her in the Emprise, her face tilted to the sky for a chance to catch a snowflake, and holds her tighter.

They sit there for what can only be a few moments, but they feel like aeons. When she sighs and pushes away, Solas swallows, reluctantly letting her go. He wants to pull her back to him, to hold her for just a moment longer — but there are many things he wants, and all of them irrelevant. She is the Inquisitor, and they both have their own duties.

“We have to go,” she says, handing him his staff. “Can’t let Bull and Dorian have all the fun.”

Solas nods and rises to his feet, wincing at the lingering ache in his joints. Even with the firepit roaring beside him, the air still feels brisk. She smiles at him, her breath misting in the air.

He has missed her smile.

“Stay warm, Solas,” she says. “We’ve got a god to kill.”


	10. Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 user Kauri has recently ("recently," more like two months ago) pointed out to me that this ficlet series has become 86% angst. I am here to bump that up again. It's like a math question. "How many 100% fluffy ficlets must valyrias write to get Aeon back to 99% fluff?"
> 
> also, this was written for [playwithdinos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos). she prompted "solavellan + upside down kiss" on my tumblr. :)

They take time to recover from their ordeal in the Château d’Onterre; the central garden is overgrown, but lovely. Varric leaves to take notes for his latest project—exploring the potential for his political serial to evolve, and include “weird shit.” Blackwall settles down with his knife and recovered firewood to carve.

Solas and the Inquisitor seek respite from the Graves’ heat by lounging under a flowering, white-blossomed tree. She observes the garden, for a moment, before closing her eyes and resting her head against the bark. Solas does the same, listening to the quiet buzz of insects and Blackwall’s knife. It is not long before he surrenders to sleep.

He does not dream, not truly; his “dreams” are flashes of color, and impressions, and warmth.

When he wakes from his dozing, the sky is purpling with the onset of sunset. His head rests in her lap, and she is humming as she plays with the flowers which drift from the tree. Solas knows he should sit up, but she has not noticed that he is awake yet, and there is something peaceful in watching her like this.

Relaxed. Happy.

She notices him, then, and smiles. She plucks a small bouquet of white flowers from her side and holds it over him. “Good evening, sleepyhead,” she teases. “I saw this and thought of you.”

Solas reaches up and takes the flowers from her. Their fingers brush against one another, and a shiver runs through him at the warmth of her touch. The bouquet smells lovely, and distantly familiar—but he knows better, now, than to reach for long-forgotten memories.

Instead, he smiles at her, and rests his hand—and her flowers—over his heart. “Serannas, vhenan.”

“Blackwall went off to find Varric,” she says, leaning over him. Her hair, unbound from its braid during his sleep, falls over her shoulders and covers either side of his face, shielding him from the outside world. “I wish him luck, this place is _huge_.”

“Indeed.” Solas’s smile wavers, and falls, as she leans closer. Her breath is warm on his cheek.

“Hey, vhenan.” She waits, but he merely arches an eyebrow. She leans closer, and her smile widens. Her eyes are warm, and the open affection in her expression makes something flutter in his gut. She lifts a hand and brushes the backs of her knuckles down his cheek. “I really _lilac_ you.”

Solas rolls his eyes, and his reaction makes her snort; it is followed with a small, yet lovely laugh. She tilts her head back as she snickers and he cannot help but realize how alive he feels here, in this moment, with her. But then she is looking down at him again with undisguised fondness.

The kiss takes him by surprise.

She leans down; warm, careful, but callused hands cradling his jaw as she closes their distance and slants her mouth over his. It is awkward, at first, due to the angle, but then she shifts and—Solas closes his eyes, savoring their closeness even as he lifts his chin and presses into the kiss. It is chaste, but still makes the flutters in the pit of his stomach increase tenfold. She smells like the white blossoms, and evergreen forests, and warmed leather.

When she pulls away, she smiles at him. “I really do, you know,” she says. “Lilac you.”

He cannot stop his smile, that time, and her nose crinkles as she huffs a laugh. She swoops down again, kissing him breathless, fingertips playing with his jaw and the curve of his neck. She leaves him half-dazed and fighting back a shiver. “Thank you,” he says, at last, when she has pulled away and is playing absently with the fallen flowers.

She looks down at him. “For what?”

He swallows, and lifts a hand. She takes it immediately, threading their fingers together and kissing the back of his palm. Before he can answer, Varric clears his throat from one of the many doorways. “So!” the dwarf calls, loudly and cheerily, striding into the garden. “We camping in the creepy-ass mansion or what?”

“It _is_ getting dark,” Blackwall points out. “Not a fan of the corpses, myself, but—”

“But this place has a _bed_ ,” Varric argues.

The Inquisitor blinks. “I was going to camp in the garden,” she says. “It’s a clear night, and warm enough. And it’s been a while since I’ve been under the stars.”

Something in her gaze goes wistful, then. Blackwall ultimately decides that the luxury of a bed is worth stepping over corpses, and rejoins Varric within the château. As darkness falls, Solas helps the Inquisitor set up a fire and their bedrolls. But when she finally retires, Solas does not join her in the Fade; instead he lies in the soft grass, and rolls the bouquet she had given him between his fingertips.

After several long moments, when the crickets’ serenades had replaced the quiet of twilight, he hears the soft crunch of grass under footsteps. She settles beside him, and pillows her head on his chest. “Stargazing?” she asks. He nods, and she smiles. “Can I join?”

“Of course,” he says; they spend the next half-hour pointing out constellations, and reminiscing, and simply _being_. It is a peace he has known, albeit rarely, and all of the most recent instances have been with her, or with the Inquisition. She falls asleep during a lull, and Solas wraps his arm around her, rubbing his thumb in slow circles between her shoulder blades.

When he is certain she is in the Fade, he turns and presses a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. “I love you,” he whispers, and tucks the miniature bouquet underneath her fingers. She shifts, sighing in her sleep, her bare toes pressing against his calves and her hand moving across his torso. She has always been prone to shifting closer to him in her sleep, but it has been a long time since Solas minded. He lifts the hand holding the bouquet, folding her fingers carefully over the flower stems, and then kisses her knuckles.

He falls asleep with her hand, and her bouquet, resting over his heart.


End file.
